Sobbing on the Plane

Since you left I’ve become a public crier. The first months after you died I walked every morning in the dark, in snow, in rain, whatever. I walked as fast as I could and sobbed and I listened to music. I walked through my neighborhood and on trails near my house. I cried out. I was not quiet. I cried in the car, on the way to work, sitting in the parking lot at work, at the gym, in my office, with the door closed, on my way to my car each night with sunglasses on, at the grocery store, in airports and on planes, and pretty much anywhere. I would talk to myself, talk to you. I really did not care who saw me or what they thought. 

This has continued. 22 months later, I walk a different neighborhood, I drive a different car, planes take me to different places, and still I cry. Not so much as in the beginning, but still with force and consistency. At this moment I am sitting in the back of a plane, in the very last row of the plane. I am the only one in the row. I am thinking of you and I am overcome. I am sobbing on the plane. I do not care who can see me. The jets drown out my noise. The flight attendant offering beverages gives me extra napkins to wipe my tears. She makes a sympathetic face. I am grateful. I am still crying, but I am grateful. Grateful for the napkins, for her kindness, for the empty seats beside me, for the loud jet engines, for the memories of you.